18 Days of Autumn
by Complica
Summary: "She wasn't yours"


A/N: A close friend of mine lost her daughter on the first of July. Autumn Nicole Watley, My Godchild. This story was written that same day and after much self debate, I've decided to post it. I think this came out of mostly anger with myself for not being able to feel more then I have. Another close friend calls it shock and I'm inclined to believe him, but it doesn't change anything. I didn't write this as some sort of self-therapy. I wanted Autumn remembered in some other way than a headstone. And though I doubt anything I write would ever do such a soul justice, I had to try. That's about the best warning I can come up with. There's grief in here, bucketloads of it. And it just goes to show what it takes for me to treat Jean's character with any type of dignity.

A/N2: For the record, those notes were written the same day. I posted this on the dead dolphin list at that time. I originally didn't intend to post it anywhere at all. But I have been convinced that posting it where a larger audience can have access to it would be a type of closure. Psychobabble if Freud ever thought of it, but to appease him, I'm gonna do it. It can't hurt, after all. The poem at the end is entirely mine. It's probably the single thing I've ever written that I honestly have no reservations about and can feel proud of. Flame it if you must, but stealing it will only give me cause to stoop to new levels of immaturity, like flooding your email with viagra ads. 

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For Autumn

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They buried Jean today.

The coffin was filled with white tulips and stamped on the outside with a golden X. 

Logan stood at the far end of the line of mourners, a good arm length away from Marie. She had come to stand next to him when all the others moved as far away as possible, gathering around Scott, making a visible statement to the Wolverine as to who they were going to support…who they believed had the right to mourn the most. 

He stared at the metal box lowered into the earth, and then each of her friends dropped a single rose into the grave. Three roses in all: Xavier's, Storm's, and Scott's. Logan was not counted among the people who cared for her, the people who loved her. He sent a sharp glare to the mourning husband and received in return a mental challenge from Xavier. The old man would not tolerate any "displays of arrogant bestiality" between him and Scott. "Not today," he whispered into Logan's mind with all the grief of a father that had seen far too many children rendered to dust. "Not today or any day after." 

The priest said a few meaningless, well-meant words about faith and love.

There was a song to which only the barest hint of voices could be heard. Those few that still had voice enough to sing had very little heart left to carry the tune.

Chuck quoted Hermann Broch in the same quietly aching tone his mind's voice carried.

"No one's death comes to pass without making some impression, and those close to the deceased inherit part of the liberated soul and become richer in their humaneness." 

If it was meant for comfort, Logan didn't feel it. From the look in the old man's eyes, Xavier found the words hollow as well. 

After that, there were no more words. 

The group of mourners stood in silence as the winds blew over them, rustling grass and the limbs of trees. A soft, misty rain followed, pouring out of a cloudless sky. Logan stared at the metal box in the empty earth and wondered, not for the first time, why he was still here. But these were the people he'd chosen. No small deed for the Wolverine. They were more important to him than his past, more important than knowing. And Jean was the woman he loved. 

He couldn't remember loving one damn person before her, and her rejection hurt more than he would ever let on. His eyes bore into the side of Scott's head, the younger man blatantly refusing to look at him. Even now, Jean was a contest between them. 

The air around him grew suddenly cold, dragging his attention away from Scott and to Storm. He caught the barest hint of disgust and an even fainter pity in her whited over eyes before she turned away, pushing Xavier's manual wheelchair over the grassy knoll. The rain and cold followed her out. Marie took his hand in her gloved one, squeezing it though he didn't look up, and then followed the other students as they left. He and Scott stood like sentinels over the open grave, and suddenly, Logan couldn't bring himself to look at the man. 

"She wasn't yours." Came a voice too dead to come from a living soul. "She would have never been yours." 

Logan didn't respond. It was nothing he didn't already know. Scott turned away and began the trek up the knoll. 

It didn't feel right to be the sole guarding of her grave, almost as if he were intruding on a private affair. Not ready to face the others either, he turned down the hilly and followed the path through the graves. He came across a concrete bench, under a weeping willow, next to a fresh grave… a heartbreakingly small patch of upturned soil. The site was decorated with wilting flowers and a small marble slab. 

Autumn Nicole Watley ……6/14/2003-7/1/2003……"The grave is but a covered bridge leading from light to light through brief darkness"……RIP 

Logan did the math in his head, 18 days. More time than he had spent with Jean in person and not hardly enough. What the hell was the point? He was a lying, cheating, thieving, cold-hearted bastard and managed to live just fine for God knows how long. What could possibly happen after 18 days of life to warrant having that life taken away? Was it some kind of fucked up joke? Here, God would say, take this precious gift. A little girl of bright eyes and pure heart, and she will give you joy for the rest of your days. Does the bastard laugh when he takes that gift away again? 

Logan eyed the tiny grave angrily, shaded beneath oak leaves with light at their edges, and began to weep. At that moment, he wasn't sure which corpse he was crying for. Maybe both, maybe neither. Maybe he wept for the injustice of it all. 

He was still weeping when another shadow masked the dancing leaves over the infant's grave. A gloved hand took his again and he met the eyes of the woman sitting next to him. Hers were red stained, and grew glassy as she caught sight of the 2x1 patch of dirt. She placed her palm against his cheek, rubbing salty tears into his skin with the thumb of her glove. 

"Come on sugar, let's go home." 

And they did.

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18 Days of Autumn

A rectangular patch of earth 

Two feet by one foot square.

The heavens dance above it,

Beneath it waits frozen bones. 

Nothing living will ever grow 

In this long bleeding plot of soil.

For after the 18 days of Autumn,

The winter winds will blow. 


End file.
